


send your nightmares across the river (i’ll cherish them in your stead)

by antagonists



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So much change going on in the outside world, but here, within the cusp of Yomi’s grounds, he is eternal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	send your nightmares across the river (i’ll cherish them in your stead)

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU NINA YOU NERD

+

 

 

On the other side of the river near the entrance to Yomi, the sky always looks as though it is in nighttime, sparkling with its many stars. Aside from the perpetual state of night, the area looks not too different from other riversides. It’s calm, clean, and the water is a cathartic presence for the souls who are crossing. For any unfortunate living humans who may happen to stumble upon the rushing waters, however, the river is hasty to pull the souls right out with its watery hands, a two-faced beast of the spirit world.

 

The souls vary in sizes and colors. Many of the ones that cross the east bridge are of brighter colors, signifying their good background and likelihood of receiving a kind name. The middle bridge sees many ambiguous spirits, ones that must be judged with a firm but wise hand. These ones tend to be murkier colors, but they are still much brighter than the ones that must cross the west bridge. The kinder ones generally have a clearer outline, and the more dubious ones shift between being shapeless and ghost-like.

 

Here, where he spectates their slow trudge on the aged wood, the souls flicker like dark flames, filled with the poisons of their wrongdoings and ill-thoughts of the past. The corpses of these souls tend to be the ones who rot in the most gruesome way possible, but he is usually too busy giving them new names to pay much attention to the appearance of empty shells.

 

Lately, there have been many souls who have been crossing the bridge. Hijikata suspects it has something to do with the war horns that he’d heard some time ago, but his sense of time has never been too reliable in this place. For all he knows, it could already have been a century since then. All he needs to do here is give the souls a new name; only that way will they be able to step into the land of the dead as a new being. It is a difficult task, but one that comes easier now that he has done it for a while.

 

He hears far-off war horns again, clearer this time than the last. The corpses on the opposite side are bloodier, now.

 

On a particularly crowded day, he catches sight of a fox boy sitting on the opposite bank of the river, gazing at the fresh corpses. At first he is alarmed; kitsune are notorious for stealing souls for themselves, but Hijikata has never seen one venture so close to Yomi. Being spiritual and finicky things, the kitsune are more likely to be drawn into the underworld than the stubborn tengu. He pauses in giving names for a moment to glare at the boy—a young boy who only has one tail.

 

The kitsune stares at the bodies for a long while, for what may perhaps be days. At times he will leave, then return after a while. But not once does he approach the souls that rise up out of the skulls. His eyes are dull, muddy, rotten like the flesh of the dead that he watches without blinking. Watching, always watching, seeking something that Hijikata cannot fathom.

 

Souls are most vulnerable when they are finally separating from their physical being. Because of this, there have been issues in the past with kitsune stealing them for meals before they could cross the river and receive their new names. Hijikata hasn’t seen the boy take anything into his hands, but he still finds the kitsune’s presence uneasy and heavy. As both a name-giver and a guard of the underworld, he is ready to expel the boy if he becomes a nuisance. His wings bristle in warning.

 

“These souls are not for you,” he calls to the boy while handing a wooden tag to the black spirit before him. It grabs at the nametag with its amorphous hands and begins descending the steps into a lightless cave. The boy does not respond, but Hijikata does see another person walking towards the river. A human, he is quick to realize, with great prowess in onmyoudo arts.

 

“Gintoki,” the man calls, gentle yet coercing. “Staying by Yomi isn’t good for your health.”

 

He’s gentle in nature and has kind eyes, but Hijikata still doesn’t like the way his eyes gleam in the shadows. There’s something dark in there, not too unlike a thick and disguising curtain. Something vital is eclipsed by his bright smiles, something that may not be the pureness that his disciplines believe.

 

“There are souls,” Hijikata hears the boy say, finally looking away from the graveyard and decomposing bodies.

 

“Souls indeed. They’re crossing the river to enter Yomi, see?” The man gestures to the old wooden bridges, painted with a bright red that has faded with immeasurable time. He turns to bow to Hijikata from across the river, hands pressed together in respect. “I apologize if he’s caused you discomfort. I hadn’t realized he’d come this close to Yomi until now. Rest assured, he will not be taking anything from here.”

 

Hijikata does not respond verbally, but he does nod briefly before returning to his tasks. His staff is familiar in his hands, and he casts inky characters onto the wooden tags, matching dreams and mental architectures to fitting names.

 

He glances at the river again, sees nothing but bones and dead bodies on the other side.

 

 

+

 

 

The boy does not return for what seems like a long time.

 

When he does, he is alone. He’s slightly taller, dressed in better clothes than those rags he’d been in. He has a charm necklace, as if protecting himself against vengeful ghosts, and there is a short sword at his hip. He looks over the mass of corpses, ears twitching, anxiously searching over them as if looking for a specific face. The kitsune turns to the side, glancing at something, and Hijikata sees two tails.

 

He’s tired, very tired. Hijikata can tell by the droop in the boy’s tails. There’s something fatalistic in the slope of those shoulders, something guilty in the stains of blood lingering at the edges of his yukata. His fingers, too, look as those they’re trying to rid themselves of bad memories, trembling greatly as all souls do when they first rise.

 

“I’m not here to steal,” the boy tells him. His eyes are sharp as they survey the line of souls before Hijikata, patiently waiting their turn to begin their descent into Yomi. “But my master is dead. If you’ve seen my master’s soul, I’m here to take it back.”

 

“Souls cannot return to the land of the living,” Hijikata replies mechanically as he continues with the naming. He has gotten used to the rapid pace that wartime brings, and it seems that the fighting on the surface world still has yet to cease.

 

“I’ll take it back,” the kitsune says, quite insistent. “He’s not supposed to go where all of those go.”

 

“I’m sure he won’t,” Hijikata says idly, remembering the quiet shift in those brown eyes. “Your master seemed like a very nice person. Are you doubting him?”

 

As if struck by Hijikata’s staff on the head, the fox child grows very silent, sullenly staring at the stormy waters before him. He looks somewhat lonelier than he had before, what with his master gone and supposedly about to cross the river. Hijikata feels empathy, but he does not dwell on it; death is natural in the world, and he’s come across so many souls and seen so many dead bodies that it doesn’t occur to him as strange or particularly sad.

 

The boy sits in the same spot without moving for days on end. Hijikata can’t tell how much time has passed since it always looks like nighttime here, but judging from the kitsune’s tired appearance, it has been a long time. Both tengu and kitsune have absurdly long lifespans, so it might even have been several years. Hijikata hasn’t aged ever since he’d started working as a name-giver at Yomi, so he finds it strange to see someone living and growing, a mere river’s breadth away from the world that he resides in.

 

At the faint sound of another war horn, the boy suddenly stands and unties the mask from around his head, throwing it across the river. It nearly doesn’t cross all the way, but manages to land on the stones and clatter loudly. The red strings stand out starkly against the sandy stone, and there are clumsy strokes of kanji etched into the inside. Hijikata reaches out his staff, pulling at the air, and the strings respond to his magic as if actually touched. The mask is warm in his hand. It smells of the surface world, of autumn leaves, rain, and spring flowers. He is surprised that he recognizes the smells.

 

“Call me with that,” the boy says. “It has my name. If you ever see him, call me, and I’ll come right away. Don’t give him a name or I’ll kill you.”

 

A fox child killing a full-fledged tengu? Hijikata almost laughs, but the harsh look in those flashing eyes has him biting his lip instead. He takes the strings of the mask and ties it around his belt, next to his gourd.

 

“We’ll see,” he says vaguely, but Gintoki is already gone, footsteps disappearing as quickly as the souls descend into their new home.

 

 

+

 

 

Gintoki’s visits become few and far in between. The times he does come to meander at the opposite shore, he is often bloody and so tired he can do little more than stare at Hijikata from faraway. After being by himself for so long, he doesn’t mind the company after having had time to get used to it. But still, there’s a brooding sadness in the looks directed his way.

 

“Naming,” the kitsune says, “doesn’t it get boring? Tiring?”

 

It’s not so different from war, Hijikata sometimes thinks. In his own way, he is killing off the remainder of a soul’s past life and forcing a new one onto them. But he does not spill blood, does not feel the rush of danger and adrenaline nor does he hear the song of blades—well, not anymore.

 

“It’s my duty,” he answers instead. Gintoki’s mask is still heavy at his side.

 

“Duty,” Gintoki echoes plainly, sitting too close to the river and washing his sword in the waters. It’s not safe at all, but cleaning blood in the purging river is the best way to rid it of bad omens and nightmares still clinging to its blade. He seems to want to wash his hands as well, but refrains when he sees Hijikata’s sharp look.

 

“I don’t mind if you die,” Hijikata says, dropping nametags into eager hands. “But could you do that at a less busy time?”

 

The kitsune stares at him curiously, leaving his sword out to gleam in the moonlight. Hijikata has always known that kitsune are famous for trick magic and thus are called witch animals, but he’s never personally had to deal with one before. He’s sort of taken aback at how brightly Gintoki’s hair gleams with starlight; he’s not used to anything but dark colors, so the change has him squinting and looking to the side to clear away the aftereffects.

 

“What would happen if I crossed the bridge?” Gintoki asks, standing at the edge of the river in his frayed sandals. If a strong wind were to blow, he might fall into the waters, but the wind never blows here. There is only the night sky, the moon and stars, and the endless reach of soul stealing currents. This place is nearly untouched and shows only the barest hint of changing seasons.

 

Hijikata continues his brushstrokes. “I haven’t seen it happen before. You’d probably die.”

 

Four tails wave about lazily. They look very much alive, so different from what Hijikata is accustomed to seeing. He doesn’t look too long at Gintoki, though. He has tasks to finish, and the line of the dead never grows shorter, only grows longer and longer. This time, his brushstrokes are meant to resemble a pattern of telling bones, the calling of the shamaness-turned-witch awaiting her name. He says the name aloud, and the syllables sound like burning, breaking bones. She accepts the tag—has no choice but to—and slowly takes her first steps down Yomi’s gaping, cold maw.

 

“I would die, huh,” Gintoki repeats. He sounds pleased at that, smiling to himself. Retrieving his sword, he sheathes it and reaches for the beads around his neck. They glow with what Hijikata knows to be arcane magic, possibly the same onmyoudo that Gintoki’s master had practiced. With a smoother movement than his first throw, he sends the magatama necklace over, and the stone and wood click neatly in Hijikata’s palm.

 

“This contains sealing spells,” Hijikata frowns as he weighs the magic in his hand. It’s heavy, unfamiliar, and feels as though it could choke him should he put it on.

 

“I’m gonna go be berserk for a while,” the kitsune says casually. “So keep it safe for me?”

 

Like before, Hijikata reaches back and loops the beads around his belt. They clack against the mask from many visits back. He still has not seen any hint of Gintoki’s master, even though he actively searches through the souls to see if he can pick out the human’s presence. There has been nothing, and while Gintoki seems to be relieved at this, there is a sad kind of smile that lingers on his young face.

 

How old is Gintoki now? Hijikata hasn’t been keeping track, but the tails are increasing in number, so that must mean something.

 

“I’ll keep it safe,” he says, and watches the sway of tails and flames disappearing into the distance.

 

 

+

 

 

Hijikata expects to see the kitsune (not so much a child anymore) soon enough, but finds that the souls he names number in the thousands—perhaps even the ten-thousands. Still no sign of Gintoki’s master, still no sign of trickster magic and weary footfalls. Since he's never supposed to leave his post, Hijikata does not go search. Should Gintoki die, there may be a possibility that his soul will pass this way. But kitsune souls are just as fickle as their owners, so they are quick to vanish into dreams and nightmares, never to return.

 

He has not named a kitsune’s soul before, hopes not to in the time that he serves here.

 

Instead, he bides his time as he has always done. He writes names in black ink, presses wood into wispy hands, all dark, all malicious. He begins to think that one day, he too, will have to shed his wings and drop his staff and brush, take up a new identity before venturing into the underworld. Tengu live long, perhaps not as long as the dragons and phoenixes, but enough for plenty of generations to pass. Somehow he cannot imagine dying, having been frozen into his current form for as long as he can remember. Neither can he understand how someone could wish to die. In the past, he may have been able to, but he has forgotten many of his worldly pains after having been surrounded by the dead for so long.

 

For the duration that he has given names, he has seen many changes in the kind of souls that come his way. Hijikata can only describe them as more modern, different from the spirits of the old, old days. There’s the difference in the way the walk, varying shades of dark that he hasn’t seen before. So much change going on in the outside world, but here, within the cusp of Yomi’s grounds, he is eternal.

 

The war horns have long since ceased, yet the peace over the lands is a mix of unfamiliarity and unease. He continues glancing over at the river once in a while, but it merely rushes on, leaving him behind amidst a horde of shadows.

 

 

+

 

 

When the sound of heavy footsteps reaches his ears, Hijikata is fast in looking up, pausing in his precise brushstrokes to look at the other world. The souls do not make any noise, but they do shift restlessly.

 

There, standing on the shore, Gintoki peers at Hijikata. His many tails, nine of them, almost look like white fire. It has been a long time, Hijikata realizes, but he hadn’t realized just how long. He no longer remembers how many names he has given since he had last seen the kitsune.

 

Gintoki raises his hand palm up, arm outstretched, and watches as the orb in his hand darkens. It seems to coagulate, almost, but then drips from his hand and onto the ground. From there it rises, slowly, as the darkest, most menacing soul that Hijikata has ever seen. Slowly, under Gintoki’s guidance, it stumbles over to the bridge, crossing very slowly.

 

“I’m here to see my master off,” Gintoki says, harrowed eyes on Hijikata now. “Please take care of him.”

 

Gintoki still smells like wars even though they've long since become relics of the past; he's a battle spirit that wanders the fields in search of his fiery, destructive calling. He doesn’t have either his necklace or mask, so Hijikata sends those over with a simple wave of his staff. Even with the sealing spells garlanding his neck and the mask fitted against his head, Gintoki is somewhat unrecognizable with his numerous tails and matured face. The only thing that Hijikata finds very familiar is the muted sorrow in his shadowed eyes.

 

“Yeah,” he responds. He turns to the quiet, seething spirit in front of him, stays still as memories and dreams play through his head. There are tales of defeat, betrayal, death and rebirth, a life within the shadows. What, he wonders, would be the appropriate name for a man whose mask had fallen off only once he’d been decapitated?

 

Hijikata says the name clearly, syllables sharp like the edge of a decapitating blade and twisted like the path of a deceitful samurai. The soul, upon receiving the wooden tag, trembles under the burdening weight of the name. It soon disappears into Yomi, never to see the light of the living world again.

 

“In the end,” Gintoki laughs, a bit sadly, “I guess he did cross the river on this side.”

 

“Will you take him back?” Hijikata asks.

 

The kitsune shakes his head, teeth glinting as he grins sloppily. At times, he looks as though he may cry. He stays for a long while at the shores, simply staring at the river, and staring at Hijikata when he no longer feels like watching the cathartic waters. Dressed in a white kimono, with that white hair and pale countenance, he looks like a ghost himself, perched on the path to Yomi as if waiting.

 

When Gintoki leaves, Hijikata watches carefully and notes the tails thick and darkened with old blood. His eyes follow the light trail that the magic beads leave behind, and when that too finally disappears, Hijikata faces the line of spirits. He picks up his brush again, and the ink flows as freely as all physical wounds inflicted by a sword do.

 

Even when the war horns sound again, the kitsune does not return.

 

 

+

 


End file.
